I'm in the middle of editing what I hope is the final draft of my next poetry collection, I ONCE WAS SOMEONE ELSE & OFTEN STILL AM. Written over the last five years, these poems grind content versus container. In practice, these poems are wild, harnessing the lopsided logic of mania & the quick energy of panic to say some interesting, often irrational things; in shape, these poems are well-shaped, often in syllabic lines, the line as the unit of measure. I thought I'd share one here that captures the twist that's happening in these pages.
MY TRIPLED-PANED SKULL FUMBLES WHAT’S CLAIMED OBVIOUS
With a flick of the wrist, my grandfather shook the snowglobe.
My triple-paned skull fumbles what’s claimed obvious.
The inability carried by my grandfather in separating cousin from I.
Not in our looks or our lineage, but the deeds we do, the needs we undo.
The twine around the newspaper still fresh with ink pulled tight.
I lose track of what once resembled reindeer.
You drink tea in the other room.
My grandfather requests a blanket of no one.
The vision of my mother set to turn her father into a fake gold watch.
Her pile of nightgowns needs folds.
You sit convinced I am a child of echoes.
Spiritually half-petrified as I barrel forth into the field.
Then later I fall from the roof.
To be frank, I am not trustworthy either.
In actuality, I shimmied the gutter, balanced my chin ever so a bit & plummeted.
I dream the stars fell down & shattered the pocket watch.
It tore grief from the ghost’s grasp, let my grandpa know he knows nothing.
I returned to me, the snow done settled within my northern orb.